


Bit By Burning Bit

by apanoplyofsong



Series: the same old dream [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, F/M, Prompt Fill, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apanoplyofsong/pseuds/apanoplyofsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompt fills and drabbles from tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. whole foods

**Author's Note:**

> Collection title from the line "This is how we loved: bit by burning bit," from Tiara Sutton's poem “Age of Consent.”
> 
> for enoughtotemptme

Bellamy _wants_ to hate it. Hell, he hates Whole Foods on principle; that’s why he’s never been into one. 

But, well, it’s _so convenient_ to his and Clarke’s new place; directly in front of the Foggy Bottom stop where he gets off the Metro every night. And eventually laziness was going to win over his pride. 

Much to his horror, he loves it. There’s a bulk aisle where he gets to scoop fancy gummy bears and chocolate covered cherries into bags until Clarke yells at him about “real food” (as if she’s never been known to take down a chocolate cake solo). There’s ingredients he wants to try, wants to cook with, but has never had easy access to before–Buddha’s hand and passion fruit and bags of carob powder for those energy bars Octavia has been bugging him to try making for almost a month now. And there are so many _options_ , he refuses on principle to bring another turkey sandwich for lunch for at least a week. He is a kid and this is his metaphorical candy store. 

His enthusiasm tapers when they’re checking out, eye bugging comically at the final price tag, but Clarke just swipes her card and shakes her head as she tucks herself into his side.

(He alternates between grumbling and espousing all the way home, reusable bags thumping against their legs.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt/fully fandom/fic things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/)!


	2. laundry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for enoughtotemptme

Clarke knows how to do laundry. Really, she does. She’s good at it, even.

What she’s not good at is finding the time. 

She doesn’t realize it the first time it happens; just flounders her hand around in her t-shirt drawer for a second, mentally cursing herself in the five o’clock pre-dawn for not doing laundry because she’s almost definitely out of passably clean tops. Then her hand hits cotton and she fumbles it on, too tired to do more than thank whichever god is in charge of laundry for the small miracle that just occurred. 

She only realizes it the second time because she catches him in the act.

Clarke comes home after a 16 hour day, because interning on top of classes fucking sucks, to find Bellamy standing in the little closet off of her kitchen that serves as the laundry room–just a washer and dryer stacked on top of each other–calmly folding pants into her old plastic basket. 

She’s too tired to do more than grumble out, “You don’t have to do that”–to which he just shrugs and says, “I know”–before scarfing down a bowl of microwaveable Easy Mac and collapsing in her bed. 

He keeps doing it, though. Weeks when she has exams or insanely long hours or is trying to juggle those and the minefield that is her mother at the same time, she’ll come home to Bellamy sitting on her couch, waiting for the dryer to buzz, having let himself in with the emergency key yet again. So she tries to thank him in her down weeks–a batch of his favorite snickerdoodle cookies, tickets to a new exhibit in town, her face pressed against his cheek, her lips pressed against his.

Once they’re officially dating, he claims the laundry service is going to stop, because “it’s one thing when you’re pining over someone, and another when your girlfriend’s just a mildly incompetent adult.” She presses her grin into his shoulder.

Somehow she never runs out of clean socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt/fully fandom/fic things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/)!


	3. piercings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for enoughtotemptme, because I clearly love her ;)

When Bellamy finds out Clarke has a belly button piercing she got when she was 16, he knows he’s screwed.

It’s not like he didn’t have his suspicions before–she’s gorgeous and giving and takes none of his shit. She’s beyond great. He’s aware. He’s been aware for a while, really. 

It’s not even that he wants to play with the ring with his tongue while his hands roam over her body. (Or, okay, it’s not _just_ that.)

It’s more the fact that when Jasper, looking half confused and aghast asks, “But what’ll you do when you get pregnant?” she glares and replies, “ _If_ I ever get pregnant, I’ll deal with it then. I don’t have to make all my decisions now based off of hypothetical future children.” 

And, yeah.

He’s fucking gone.

For now, he just offers her a high-five instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt/fully fandom/fic things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/)!


	4. newspapers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for teamquiche

When Clarke lands a position at the Arts and Leisure section of a newspaper a year out of college, Bellamy gives her a hug and buys her a slice of the chocolate cinnamon torte she loves from a local bakery. He’s her best friend; he’s always supportive.

She doesn’t realize just _how_ supportive until she’s digging through the shelf in his closet months later, looking for the hammer that he swears is back there, _really, Clarke_. They’ve been trying to hang picture frames around his apartment for half an hour now, and pounding nails into the wall with the bottle of nail polish fished out of her purse is getting old. 

Instead of a hammer, though, she finds a pile of copies from the newspaper she works at, neatly stacked in the back corner. 

When she pulls them down and begins flipping through, it takes her a minute. There’s no obvious rhyme to which editions he’s kept–dates and front page stories varying widely–until she realizes the uniting element is _her_. Most of her work is based online, because, with the Arts section only being printed on Sundays due to low subscription numbers, she just doesn’t make it into every edition. But these are all copies that contain articles, reviews, designs by her; pages folded carefully along the newspaper’s established creases so as to not interrupt them. 

Clarke sits on the floor with them in her lap and stares, running her fingers over the rippled edges.

“Hey, did you find it? I swear there’s a hammer somewhere in this apartment.” Bellamy stops in his doorway when she looks up at him, eyes a little watery and awed, then walks forward slowly until he’s settled down in front of her, knees touching knees. 

Eventually he just shrugs a little, smile small and nervous, and says, “I love everything you do. I figured it deserved to be kept.”

The angle is wrong and awkward, but she doesn’t care that their lips are messy once they meet.

(When she gets her first cover story, Bellamy has it framed and hangs it above the desk in their bedroom. He uses the hammer she brought with her.

A year after that, Clarke’s just grateful that all the newspapers make house-breaking a dog _so_ much easier.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt/fully fandom/fic things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/)!


	5. hamilton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon prompt

It’s Lincoln who convinces him to listen to the soundtrack, weirdly enough. Octavia is going on and on about how _cool_ it is and that it’s “ _history_ , Bell, you’d love it!” but it’s Lincoln’s gentle nod and easy, “You really would,” that ultimately pushes him over the edge.

Bellamy cries the first time he plays “Wait for It,” then immediately kind of hates himself because it’s _Aaron Burr,_ Jesus fucking Christ. 

It’s just that it strikes a little too close to home when he hears “ _if there’s a reason I’m still alive when everyone who loves me has died, then I’m willing to wait for it_.” He knows that feeling. He lived that feeling for years, after his mom died and he was taking care of Octavia, every time someone came into his life and then left him dangling at another precipice, every night he stayed up late balancing and rebalancing the budget until he was sure they’d have enough money for everything they needed that month. 

It’s not an imprint that goes away, now that things are easier. 

Clarke finds them tickets the first Christmas that they’re together. The entire thing is a torrent of emotions, but it’s the same refrain that gets to him partway through the first act. Clarke peeks up when he sniffles and finds his eyes teary, but she just laces their fingers together and leans her head against his shoulder. 

Bellamy squeezes her hand and presses his cheek against her hair, thinking _yeah, this was worth the wait_.

Years later in a hospital room, holding a bundle in his arms, a line floats across his mind–” _my father wasn’t around; I swear that I’ll be around for you_.” He’s crying again, and Clarke’s cheek is wet beside his own, but it’s okay, really.

Their daughter’s crying, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt/fully fandom/fic things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/)!


	6. pillows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for octayviiablakes

When they get to the ground, sleeping arrangements are the only thing that’s not excessively complicated. Every person on the dropship had a seat, except for Bellamy, and later Raven once she came down, but they lost enough people in those first few days that anyone who wanted to could claim the padding from a seat cushion and place it at the head of their bedroll. The extras were left for Clarke’s medical equipment, to prop up sprained ankles and lay concussed heads on. A few people chose to forgo the cushions entirely, opting to pillow their heads on tree leaves and packed dirt, a reminder that they were _here_ , that they _made it_ , that they were _on the fucking ground_. 

The problem really only comes when Clarke returns to whatever home is left in Arkadia. It’s mellowed, with Pike no longer in power, but the marks of Mount Weather are still everywhere–the chandeliers in the bar, the vehicles in the hangar, the bedding they have for every person, scavenged before the mountain was destroyed. 

Clarke just can’t bring herself to sleep on pillows she helped irradiate. 

Bellamy figures is out. She’s been wincing for weeks every time she turns her head, claiming she just slept on her neck wrong, but then he walks into her room to ask about the water collection system and sees the shelf of her bed bare except for a single blanket–the scratchy worn kind from their dropship days–stretched across it. 

He helps her make a new one out of stretched rabbit skins from their traps, stuffed with dried tree needles and corn husks. It’s obnoxious and noisy at night, but it’s better. When the nightmares become too strong under the weight of all that he’s done, she helps him make one, too.

When they get married–a union, a joining, a statement of intentions on the ground more than the formal contract it was on the Ark–the people that border them near the sea teach the two to make pillows out of smooth doeskin, stuffed with the silky silver wheat strain that grows now and the green and gray feathers of the birds they’re learning to cultivate. Bellamy makes the easy back-stitch of a seamstress in straight, simple lines, while Clarke’s neat surgical stitching marks her edges. Once they’re complete, they place their pillows on each other’s sides of the bed.

The finished products are soft, cushioned and comfortable on the dawns they can’t sleep, but it doesn’t matter, really.

More often than not, Bellamy’s chest is where Clarke lays her head, or his back bears her forehead pressed against it; his jaw cradled in the crook of her elbow or nestled against her forehead so that when he wakes, the first thing he does is press his lips against her skin. They find comfort in each other, pillow and hold and love far past the edges of each new night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt/fully fandom/fic things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/)


	7. a soft place to land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vague future canon. They find land, and maybe hope, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Sara Bareilles

When they find the land, she smiles.

It’s soft and sure, pouring a summer’s worth of light into her eyes. He’s getting to see it more and more these days.

The clearing is small, but there are pines and oaks and the type of maples that turn fluorescent in the fall around its edges, stretching as far as he can see. They could build. They could fish and hunt and plant a garden where the soil feeds patches of wildflowers.

He can picture the firepit, the smokehouse in the back corner, the cabins with porches and maybe even yards for children to play in someday.

They could have enough.

Bellamy can hear the river to his back, far enough away that they would be safe from the spring floods but close enough that Raven could build pipes and irrigation to provide water to their people with ease.

 _This could work_ , he thinks, and breathes.

He watches Clarke as she walks the length of the space with her feet directly in front of each other, marking the location carefully on the map she’s drawn on a scroll of the paper they’ve learned to make from willow branches and cornhusks, sturdied against a smooth expanse of tree bark.

Her hair is shorter now, and he likes it--likes that she looks lighter with it, that the sun bounces off her shoulders every time she moves.

Other things are different now, too.

Octavia never stays for very long. She’s happier as an emissary to Luna’s people, travelling between them and the other clans every few weeks, moving and negotiating and returning to camp as regularly as she can. She says it makes her feel closer to Lincoln, to what he would have wanted. Bellamy understands, but just knowing that this river flows to the ocean makes his sister feel a little closer.

He thinks, maybe, eventually, she could be okay in a place like this, too.

It still isn’t fully healed, isn’t _good_ \--he’s not certain if it ever will be--but it’s getting better. A little easier. A few less shouts in the night.

Clarke returns to his side, wheels in her mind already turning, and he lets himself throw an arm across her shoulder, tuck her face into his neck. Lets himself breathe in the peace that she brings him.

That’s getting easier, too.

Bellamy has trouble believing sometimes that he deserves to touch something good, but, every day, when he wakes up, she’s still there.

“Things could be good here, right?” she says, words pressed low into his skin.

“Yeah.” He looks over her head to where the sunlight falls on the earliest of spring’s blooms. The smallest are the same shade of blue as her eyes. “They could be good.”

 

* * *

 

She likes watching them build.

The summer sun is hot and the air sticks to her skin with a heavy weight the climate control of the Ark never allowed, but every once in a while a breeze will blow through the trees, carried inland from the ocean, and she feels the earth sigh.

Clarke stands at the edge of the camp they’ve cleared straight towards the river, its trees rolled neatly to one side to await being chopped into more manageable slats. There are already new seeds sprouting tiny blades of grass where their stumps used to sit, the smallest bits of green Clarke has ever seen.

Death, reclamation, rebirth.

Over and over again.

She only has a moment; just stepped away into the light to pull a shard from Joshua’s hand and refill one of the buckets of water they’ve left to boil in the shade of the town hall. It was the first thing constructed when they settled--a temporary barracks, cafeteria, meeting place, and triage all at once--and the sight of it still makes her proud. They get to build cabins now, permanent places for them to live and grow and maybe spend a life.

She gets to be _proud_.

She’s not surprised when Bellamy appears at her side. It feels like there’s something strung between them these days, some kind of tether tying them together and staked into the ground they chose for their people. They’ve always needed each other, but they know it now, carry that certainty in ways big and small and constantly discovered inbetween. It’s something more than it was before. They both know that they _want_ the other there, too, and are learning not to be afraid of it.

The clearing is filled with the sounds of metal against metal, the rustle of leaves from the trees around them, and Bellamy’s voice rumbling underneath it all as he tells her, “Medical’s set up is just about finished. We need you to walk through it for the final adjustments.”

Clarke nods. “Good. Miller’s group almost has the third cabin finished, so we should be on track if winter doesn’t come early.” She glances up at him, squinting slightly against the sun that his mess of curls turns into a haze. “And tell Harper to keep her shoulders covered. I really don’t want to have to figure out what possibly hallucinogenic plant treats skin cancer.”

His lip twitches, thoughts of the lectures they’ve received on the subject undoubtedly at the front of his mind. “Will do.”

They stand for a moment, looking over the people they’ve saved and who have saved them. Their group is smaller now, even more broken and scarred than the dropship days that bore a similar number, and sometimes it still feels like she’s dangling from a precipice with everyone’s lives braced on her fingertips. Earth is still foreign and brutal and just barely fathomable. But none of the blood this piece of land may have seen has been spilt by their hands, and that is enough for now.

Clarke reaches out and finds Bellamy’s hand easily, twining their fingers together until his calloused thumb moves softly against her skin.

There was a story her father used to tell her of sailors lost at sea, tossed around by storms and changing fate for weeks on end. In the tale, the sailors only knew they were safe when the sky bore a white-winged bird that was easy in flight, a bridge between the land and the water that guided them home. That became their sign; their one steady, crystalline beacon of hope.

She thinks of it now, watching their people; these inhabiters of both earth and sky, desperate and hopeful with it all.

She thinks of it with the ease that comes from Bellamy, steady by her side, palm warm and flush against her own. Everything clearer with him there.

They’re falling together, she knows, but Clarke’s okay with world taking its time on them.

If she only gets one good thing in this life, she wants it to be him.

A splash of white glides by overhead. Bellamy's hand tightens briefly around her own.

She thinks, maybe, they can find their way home.


	8. you’re so cute when you pout like that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for nathenmiller on tumblr

“No.”

Bellamy looks up from his place at the table as the door slams, reading glasses sliding precariously down his nose with the movement. “What?”

“Please tell me,” Clarke continues, “that you are not eating”--her bag thuds loudly against the floor--“the last of Monty’s cupcakes?”

Monty had taken up baking when he went sober with Jasper out of solidarity, and marathoning Great British Bake Off on Netflix had meant he quickly felt the need to advance past boxed brownies. Living in the same apartment complex meant they reaped the rewards. His latest delivery was double dark chocolate cupcakes with raspberry filling--Clarke had been halfway through her first one before he even finished the description.

Now, her feet hurt after 3 classes and a 5 hour shift, her clothes smell like burnt coffee, and she really just wants to stuff her face with another cupcake.

Bellamy moves a book out of his lap so he can cross his arms without the cover stabbing his elbow and narrows his eyes.

“Do you mean the cupcakes that you ate _three_ of before I even knew they were here? Because I don’t think you get to complain about not having this one, too.”

“Hey, I just assumed you heard the knock on the door, the twenty minutes of conversation, Monty’s yelp when the UPS guy ran into him in the hallway…”

Bellamy looks unimpressed.

“What if I told you the thought of that cupcake was the only thing that got me through the day?” she asks, falling into the seat next to him.

He lifts the fork from the little plate the cupcake’s sitting on, cuts into the dessert like he’s slicing a two layer cake, and brings a piece of it to his mouth with a pointed raise of his brow.

Bellamy’s the only person Clarke knows who insists on eating cupcakes with a _fork_ , a fact she would be teasing him about right now if it weren’t for the rather distracting dab of jam left smeared on the edge of his lip.

Deciding to room together six months ago had been a risk. Clarke assumed she would either fall in love with him or they wouldn’t be speaking by the time the lease was up.

So far it’s been the former, but moments like this make her hold out hope for the latter. Because, well, not talking is probably safer than leaning in to lick the raspberry off his mouth, right?

She drops her head down against her hands instead, looking up through her lashes with what are hopefully her best puppy dog eyes.

Bellamy’s already shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re _so_ cute when you’re pouting like that--it doesn’t mean you’re getting what you want.”

Clarke’s eyes snap to his face from the fork he’s using to point emphatically, something warm and pink sparking slightly in her cheeks and her heart. But, she can come back to that.

“Even if a customer made me redo their drink three times because it ‘ _didn’t taste right_ ’ and implied that, as a woman, I should have known better?” she tries. “He didn’t even tip after all of that.”

Bellamy grimaces, but the cupcake stays in front of him. “Working in customer service always sucks.”

“ _And_ my boss wrote me up for a dress code violation because my bra strap slid out of my sleeve while restocking the cabinets.”

“Jesus. Fine!”

Clarke grabs the cupcake as he pushes it towards her, humming happily as the soft chocolate frosting melts across her tongue. Bellamy watches her, his head shaking but his eyes soft.

“So,” she finally says, licking a stray crumb from her thumb before meeting his eye, “you think I’m cute, huh?”

He laughs a little, tips of his ears going pink, then leans in slowly until his lips touch hers. The kiss is soft and short, just uncertain enough for Clarke to guess he’s been thinking about this too, just messy enough for her to taste the flash of raspberry through their smiles.

“Yeah.” He brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re alright.”

She curls into his side on the sofa a little later, everything gone warm and cozy with this tentative joy, and milks a rain-damaged sketchbook for control of the remote. Bellamy only grumbles through part of the third episode of Chopped, but it’s okay.

Later, she makes sure he gets exactly what he wants, too.


	9. "fight me, you attractive stranger"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for Kacka!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tweaked the wording slightly because ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Bellamy is kicking his shoes under one of the kitchen’s bar stools when he sees her.

She’s face down on the sofa he got in college, bare toes hanging off the edge, dressed in dark jeans and a flannel shirt that’s fraying at the seams. Her hair is a pale blue and spreads out in all directions, waves of the sky overtaking clouds.

He steps tentatively towards the living room.

“Uh, hello?”

There’s something mumbled in response, but it’s garbled by the couch’s cushions before it reaches Bellamy’s ears.

He tries again.

“Do you need something?”

Her words aren’t any clearer this time, but she does swing an arm out to flip him off, so at least that’s universal.

“You know, you probably shouldn’t keep your face pressed into a cushion like that. Someone’s definitely died that way.”

She turns her head finally, one blue eye blinking open behind its matching curtain of hair to glare at where he’s now crouched next to the head of the sofa. Her voice is low and a little rough when she speaks.

“Fight me.”

“You’re an attractive stranger; I would never do that.”

Her brow ticks upward and he snorts, conceding.

“Okay, maybe I would.” Bellamy settles onto the carpet and brushes some of the hair out of her face. “Hey.”

Clarke hums and lifts her head enough for him to press a kiss against her lips. She’s warm and soft, familiar in a way that leaves Bellamy feeling easy in his own skin in response.

His fingers sift through her waves again, watching how the strands change shade as they catch the light. “You dyed your hair.”

“Raven convinced me it was thematic–the gallery’s next exhibit being water-centric and all.” She shrugs a little, leaning her head into Bellamy’s hand where it runs across her scalp.

“You know the kids are going to ask why _you_ get to paint your hair the next time you come by the school.”

She smirks. “You’re just worried they’ll think I’m cooler than you are.”

“The little traitors,” he grumbles, remembering how excited his students had been when Clarke showed them how to stain things with tissue paper. She rolls to the side and tugs on his arm until he climbs on the sofa next to her.

“They’re first graders, Bell, not a Roman legion.”

“And they never will be, with that attitude.”

Bellamy runs his hand down Clarke’s spine as she resettles between his legs, faced pressed into the fabric of his shirt and hair tickling his nose. Her breath is warm against his collarbone when she speaks.

“I promise not to use my cool points against you, if you promise to never use an army of seven year olds against me.”

“Yeah,” he says, fingers weaving back into her hair so he can study how the color looks against both of their skins, “sounds like a deal.”


	10. "it’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for nathenmiller on tumblr!

It feels like he’s breaking his own heart, and Bellamy hates every moment of it.

But he knows he can’t _not_ do this, can’t give up on what he’s always wanted, even if it means losing something he never dreamed.

Clarke seems to feel the need to remind him of this. Loudly.

“Of course you have to go, Bellamy, it’s a fellowship with the _Smithsonian_!” Her hands are planted on her hips, face fierce even though he’s not actually fighting her on this.

He rubs a hand against the back of his neck.

“I know, it’s just...what happens here?”

Clarke tilts her head and he licks his lips.

“You know, with us. What happens with us?”

He tries not to worry as her brow furrows, chewing her lip in the way he likes to thumb out from between her teeth. It’s just--Bellamy didn’t think this was brewing, didn’t think about the application he’d sent out months ago on the night he and Clarke finally, finally kissed, bodies sinking into each other where they had been resting close on her front porch. Hadn’t ever thought he’d get the position, hadn’t thought he’d ever get to kiss Clarke outside of his sleep.

But now Clarke’s standing in front of him, eyes locked on his as she stops the pacing she had picked up a moment ago.

“I’ve done long distance before,” she says, voice low. “I don’t really have an interest in doing that again.”

Something cold that had been waiting in his chest falls to his stomach, extinguishes the flicker of hope that had been waiting there.

“Yeah. No, of course, I--” He’s rambling. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really, it _doesn’t_ ; they’ve only technically been dating for a few months. But he’s known Clarke for years, has seen the momentum building up to this for most of them, feels her deep within his bones like she’s always been there.

He hadn’t wanted to imagine what it would be like for her not to be a part of him anymore.

“So,” she continues, “I’m coming with you.”

Bellamy blinks.

“ _What_?”

Clarke shrugs but her face is determined, body braced for battle. “I like DC. I can consult or freelance from anywhere. So I’ll come.”

He scrubs at his face, talking before his fingers have even made it back to his side. “Clarke, you can’t--you can’t just _do_ that! You have a life here, you have friends, you have plans; you can’t just leave it all, not for me.” His lungs feel heavier with every breath.

“Well, it’s a shame nobody asked for your opinion, then.”

Bellamy gapes for a moment and then clamps his mouth shut. Clarke steps towards him and, for the first time today, she looks vulnerable.

“All my plans have you in them, Bell.” She reaches for his hand and he gives it, her eyes tracing the easy way their fingers intertwine. “I’m not...I’m not actually planning for this to end.”

The air rushes out of him and he gives in to instinct, stepping into her and tilting her head up just enough for his lips to press against her forehead. Her arms circle his waist, hands fisted in the back of his t-shirt, and he weaves his hand into her hair, waits for his heart to return to its regular rhythm before he can ask.

“Are you sure?”

She nods, chin lifting to settle on his shoulder so that when she speaks, her voice comes right in his ear, reverberates through him. “I’m _sure_.”

Three months later, they move into an apartment off the red line and Clarke stops him when he goes to hang a picture from their farewell party over the TV.

“What? Why?” he asks, looking between her and the frame.

“Because, it shouldn’t go there.”

“Okay, but why not? I like it there.”

“Well, I don’t. And since I _gave up my life_ to be here with you…”

He chokes on a laugh, the glint in her eye driving him to pick her up, toss her back the foot onto their brand new couch. She’s squealing before he cuts her off, lips pressed against hers.

“Fine,” Bellamy sighs. “Where do you want it?”

_It was worth it_ , she tells him, years down the line.

And he thinks, _yeah_. He would do it again every time.


	11. "so we’re stuck on a ski lift together"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked for "so we’re stuck on a ski lift together' with a Bellamy with smol fear of heights, pls"  
> Set in some vague future where the meltdown is no longer a thing

“Remind me why we agreed to this?”

Bellamy tries not to fidget, overly aware of the fact that every movement makes the old metal chair creak ominously. It’s bad enough that they’re hanging 50 feet above a snow-covered mountainside. He really doesn’t need whatever hundred year old joints are holding this thing together to give out, too.

“Because,” Clarke says placidly, feet kicking slightly in the air, “Raven said it was the easiest way to assess the terrain before we finalize the borders. Unless you wanted to spend three days climbing up and down a mountain in Azgeda winter, that is.”

The world no longer feels like it’s trying to kill them constantly, but there are always elements to reassess, review. Clarke and Bellamy are part of the delegation to mediate territory lines now that Skaikru’s found land between Azgeda and the ocean for their people. Now that they’re accepted, free to live.

They could thrive, he thinks. They could be fine, after everything. There are spaces to hunt and mediate and sleep, and he gets to do it all with Clarke by his side. Wrapping around her might just be the best part of having a _home_ to come back to each night.

The lift lurches to a stop and Bellamy’s eyes slam shut, blocking out the image of trees swinging beneath them, precarious points waiting to fracture limbs as they find their way down. He clamps his hands against the edge of the seat and tries to focus on the cold metal against his palm instead of the wind battering his cheeks.

“It’s fine,” he mutters to himself. “It’s fine. Just the battery, probably. Raven’s running it on auxiliary, just needs to readjust some things and it’ll be _fine_.”

Clarke’s hand slips over his, easy and familiar even through the scratch of the handwarmers he knit her, fingers free so she can write and draw as needed.

“Huh. I didn’t know you were afraid of heights.”

“Only when my feet are dangling midair on the middle of a giant metal deathtrap,” he grouses. Bellamy can practically see Clarke bite back a smile, the way her lips purse slightly with it, but he refuses to open his eyes to check.

She hums. “I don’t know, it’s not that bad. We’ve got good company, some quiet for once.” Her fingers dance across his own, follow a path they take on mornings the two of them are cocooned in their bedsheets, nothing on their minds but each other. The touch flits across his arm, down to his knee. “I’m sure we could find a way to pass the time if we need to. It might even distract you.”

Bellamy cracks his eyes open, glares at her. It’s a little tough when her cheeks are flushed pink and the light shining off her hair matches the ice, but the landscape moving underneath them make it easier.

“Clarke, if you go anywhere near my dick right now, I will move to Luna’s rig and never come back.”

“No, you won’t.”

He sighs and closes his eyes again. Okay, so he wouldn’t--partially because he still doesn’t trust the safety of the structure. Salt water _corrodes_. But the sentiment still stands.

His partner doesn’t seem to mind though, trailing her fingers up and down his thigh, scratching a little every once in a while so he can feel her nails drag against the weave of his jeans. It starts to relax him, just a little, starts to make him lean in towards Clarke’s side of the seat, but another gust of wind sends them rocking and he’s once again gripping desperately to the poles bracing the seat.

“ _Clarke_ ,” he says when her hand doesn’t stop its movements. It’s intended to sound like a bark but comes out as more of a whine and she laughs.

“Fine, fine.” She squeezes his knee just as the lift heaves into motion once more. “Later, then.”

Bellamy peels his eyes open, finds Clarke looking pleased with herself as she surveys the treeline. He finds her hand with his, weaves their fingers together.

“Yeah. Later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking holiday prompts on [tumblr](apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com)!


	12. got everything I need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy's asking Clarke to marry him. He's not nervous. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @blakesdoitnaster requested "a lil engagement fic"
> 
> chapter title from Slack Jaw by Sylvan Esso

The evening is perfectly normal.

It’s calm, quiet–easy and familiar in his favorite way.

Bellamy had a meeting across town, so he picked up dinner at a Thai place next door to the gelato shop that Clarke loves but they rarely drive out of their way for, then stopped for a pint of amarena, too. The only thing they have planned is eating takeout and watching Netflix on Clarke’s couch.

It’s all  _perfectly normal_.

Which means he’s also acting perfectly normal, thank you very much.

It’s not like he has a reason to be nervous, anyway. So he’s asking his girlfriend to marry him? They’ve talked about it, are already planning to move in together after his lease is up in August. They have an apartment lined up, a vague timeline worked out–the fact that he wants to spend his life next to her should not be anything new.

She’s going to say yes. She’s all but told him that already.

(But,  _God_ , he hopes she says yes.)

Despite the reassurances he’s told himself, he feels his ears start to flush when Clarke eyes him over her pile of cashew chicken.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” Bellamy forces his leg to stop bouncing, leaning over to steal a crispy roll off of her plate before planting a kiss on her cheek. “What are we watching?”

Clarke makes a face but settles in next to him, focus turned to starting up a documentary about the South Pacific.

It’s easy, after they’ve eaten too much gelato off their spoons, to pull Clarke into his side and wrap an arm around her to keep from fidgeting. Excess energy hums under his skin, jumpy and alive and needing a conduit, but he makes himself wait. He wants to take a few moments to just soak this in.

Bellamy’s eyes are diligently focused on the screen but he’s aware of Clarke’s hair, soft and wayward under his cheek; her breath warm against his arm where it winds across her chest. The way she turns into him when his thumb brushes against her neck is familiar and steadying. It’s dark and quiet and the hum of their life together soothes him.

She’s the only thing that always feels like home.

“So, I know this isn’t fancy.” The narrator is saying something about volcanos but Bellamy barely registers it, too ready to get the words out now that he’s started. “But I wanted to ask in a way that felt like us. Or, ask officially, I guess.” He draws a breath. “Clarke, will you marry me?”

She’s quiet, still against him, and his heartbeat picks up a little.

“I know it’s sooner than we talked about, and it’s okay if you want to wait, or we can wait a while to get married–whatever you want to do. I just…didn’t really want to spend the next few months  _not_ being engaged to you when I could be.” Bellamy laughs a little breathlessly, inadvertently blowing a strand of hair across her face.  He twists his head to brush it out of the way and–

“Clarke?”

She’s asleep. Her eyes move slightly beneath her closed lids and he laughs more notably this time, the rush of adrenaline giving way to fondness and amusement. Clarke jostles with the movement, slack lips sliding shut as she burrows towards his chest.

Bellamy reaches for the remote, rubbing his hand across her shoulder as he shuts the TV off. “Come on, Clarke,” he says once he has. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Her brow furrows as he pushes her towards her feet. “‘m tired.”

He grins even though she won’t see it in the dark of the living room.

“I know, but you’ll be more comfortable in bed. Come on.”

She lets him guide her down the hall, shimmies out of her pants and slips the bra off from beneath her shirt after she’s already burrowed under the covers. Bellamy grabs the spare pajama pants he keeps in her dresser, stepping into them and brushing his teeth quickly before he slides in beside her.

Clarke reaches her hand out to splay against his chest, scooting until her head rests on his shoulder. He winds his fingers through her hair and scratches gently at her scalp.

“Hey, Bellamy?” she says, voice already heavy with drowsiness again. “Were you trying to tell me something?”

“Don’t worry.” He smooths his hand against her head and presses a kiss above her ear. “I’ll ask you again tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's (approximately) my [fic anniversary](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/post/164582041857/okay-heres-the-deal-almost-2-years-ago-i-posted)!


	13. how about forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Marriage” as they’ve known it doesn’t really mean anything down here. It’s not necessary, hasn’t been, but.
> 
> Clarke wants the things they say in the quiet depths of night to see the light of day. Wants everyone to know there’s not a doubt left in her bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @clarkeknows asked for: “A fic about bellarke wedding and their vows”
> 
> chapter title from Chateau Lobby #4 by Father John Misty

It’s simple. Quiet.

Clarke’s not sure it even counts as a wedding, really, but they’ve redefined so many things in the wake of the second apocalypse that one more won’t make a difference. Except to them.

It’s been years since Bellamy and the others came back down. Years since they dug out what was left of the bunker; years, even, since they found their way together in the dusky twilight. Years that they’ve pushed and pulled together in their one little cabin, sometimes wondering how this was their fate.

Madi waits in the treeline, but it’s just her and Bellamy down by the lake.

There’s no officiant, no rings. None of the contracts they would have had to sign back on the Ark, no obligations they owe each other besides the ones they set themselves.

“Marriage” as they’ve known it doesn’t really mean anything down here. It’s not necessary, hasn’t been, but.

Clarke wants the things they say in the quiet depths of night to see the light of day. Wants everyone to know there’s not a doubt left in her bones. Wants to stand here with Bellamy’s hands in hers and the sunlight wrapping around them at the edge of the lake where they finally found each other all those years ago. The lake they settled their few people near, built their life around.

He’s smiling at her, gentle and wide. Stubble glints across his cheeks and a strand of gray has found its way into his hair. He was the one who wondered about this, mildly, with his fingers tangled in her hair and her skin pressed against his early one morning, and the same light that shone in his eyes when she agreed lights them now.

She loves this man.

If there’s anything she’s certain of, it’s him.

“I’m with you, forever,” Bellamy says, and laces their fingers together. It’s the same thing he told her when she couldn’t believe he was really on Earth again, the same thing she told him when he woke up panting and only calmed once his palm was pressed against her cheek.

“I’m with you. Forever,” Clarke echoes.

She grins and he grins back, wraps a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her forward for a kiss that threatens to make her heart burst, makes her warm all the way down to her toes. He sneaks one more after they pull apart and she leans her head against his shoulder, laughs when Madi rushes out to meet them with strands of flowers clutched in her hands.

Everyone is waiting when they walk through the gates of their village--her mom and Miller among the first to hug them, pat down the flowers laced through their hair. There are cheers and Monty breaks out a bottle of moonshine and Clarke feels almost overwhelmed with the good that they’ve managed to build here. With the life they built from the ashes of what they all once were.

“You know,” Bellamy says, watching her watch everyone once things have quieted for a moment, “I think I like having you by my side.”

Clarke laughs, knocks her shoulder against his when he winks and tugs at a strand of her hair. His freckles dance in the dimming light and she pulls his arm tighter around her, contentment filling her at his touch and the reminder of all the good in their lives.

“Yeah,” she replies, quiet so only he can hear. “I think you can stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's (approximately) my [fic anniversary](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/post/164582041857/okay-heres-the-deal-almost-2-years-ago-i-posted)!


	14. just let me fucking live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re drunk, you know that?”
> 
> “Just let me fucking live, okay?” A strand of hair has fallen across her mouth but Clarke doesn’t seem to notice. “I desp-- I deserve bunny scientists.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enoughtotemptme said "prompt: just let me fuckin live okay" and I am nothing if not a giver

“Hey, Bell’my?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think rabbits know about science?”

Bellamy pauses unlocking Clarke’s door and looks down at where she’s leaning against his shoulder, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy. She grumbles when they start moving and Bellamy’s glad she’s too far gone to care if he smiles.

“I don’t think rabbits really have a sense of consciousness, so I doubt they know about science.”

“Think about it, though. Little bunny scientists? We should have bunny scientists.” There’s an  _oof_ as she flops onto her bed and Bellamy kneels to pull off her shoes.

“You’re drunk, you know that?”

“Just let me fucking live, okay?” A strand of hair has fallen across her mouth but Clarke doesn’t seem to notice. “I desp-- I  _deserve_ bunny scientists.”

He snorts, pulling the blankets around her shoulders. “You do deserve bunny scientists. Maybe someday.”

Clarke nods as she burrows into the pillows. When her shoes are in the closet and the lamp turned off, Bellamy looks over at her before leaving the room. Her eyes are closed, lips still stained red from the lipstick she wore earlier and the cherries she kept eating after drink five. She’s tucked up tight, even though she always inevitably sprawls across the bed halfway through the night.

The ever-present well of affection inside him swells.

“I’ll be on the couch if you need anything, okay?” he says quietly.

“Mmm...Bell’my! Wait, Bell-a-my!” Clarke blinks against the light slipping in through the doorway, one arm flopping out in his direction, and Bellamy lets her grab onto his wrist to pull him close.

“Yeah?”

“Did I tell you that you’re so pretty? Like, so pretty. The prettiest.”

“You didn’t.”

“Well, you are. But pretty and good, too. So good. And right beside me. I like it so much.” She furrows her brow, like the words are heavy as she tries to push them out. “Just wanna be with you always, Bell…”

Her eyes are drifting shut again and Bellamy reaches down, brushes the hair out of her face. His heart is loud against his ribs but he lets his hand linger on her cheek, thumb just tracing the edge of her mouth as she leans into his touch.

He swallows and kneels next to the mattress so she can see him before her eyes close. “Why don’t we talk about it in the morning? If you remember.”

“I will,” Clarke murmurs, head falling deeper into the pillow.

His heart might tear his chest in two.

He’s been up for most of an hour, coffee brewed and waiting, when Clarke stumbles through her door, grabs his hand, and pulls him back towards her room.

“I still like you,” she mumbles with her face pressed against his shirt.

He hums and rubs his hand against her back, light pouring out of him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I’ll like you a lot better in a couple of hours.”

Bellamy doesn't put up a fight when she climbs back into bed, hold still tight on his hand. After all, he's right beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's (approximately) my [fic anniversary](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/post/164582041857/okay-heres-the-deal-almost-2-years-ago-i-posted)!


	15. pets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy Blake didn’t exactly expect to become a cat dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kacka said: "My prompt is "pet(s)" because there can never be enough pet fics in this world"

Bellamy Blake didn’t exactly expect to become a cat dad. When the weird hairless stray from the corner store followed him home and adopted him, he’d avoided doing anything more than leaving it water and food for a week. Then Clarke got it to cuddle, named it George, and Bellamy knew he was screwed. 

“I don’t know,” Clarke said, scooping up the cat when he came to butt at her hand. “He just looks like a George.”

Bellamy blinked, fighting the smile that played at his lips. “Fine. But you’re giving him flea baths.”

“Deal.”

He more or less leaned into it after the thematic Christmas gifts and stupidly expensive cat tower. Having a warm, happy body to nestle against him in the evenings was nice; even if it was small and feline.

Now, though, with George crouched in the middle of the bed like a hissing, angry gremlin, he’s questioning the sanity of the whole thing.

“So,” Clarke says, leaning against the doorframe, “do you think he figured out something’s changed?”

Bellamy snorts, tucking his head down against hers. They’ve only officially been dating a week, but he already loves the easy familiarity of her fingers in his hair, the softness of her skin against his. George always liked Clarke best, but apparently Bellamy spending the last two evenings at her place was too much. 

“Maybe I can--” George howls, sharp and loud, and Bellamy backs away. 

“Come on.” Clarke grabs his hand, tugs him towards the sofa. “We’ve still got half of that Planet Earth episode to watch anyway.”

Bellamy lays down with his head in her lap, runs a hand over his face. He can still hear George clawing at the mattress in the next room. “Do you think I’ll ever get to have my girlfriend sleep in my own bed?”

Clarke’s laugh is soft, her eyes twinkling when she looks down at him. “Here’s hoping.”

Either way, he thinks they’ll probably be alright. 

(Three weeks later, when he wakes up to Clarke in his arms and George curled around his head, Bellamy doesn’t have to say he has everything he needs. He just presses a smile into his girlfriend’s hair and lets himself fall back asleep.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [expect nothing in a timely fashion](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/post/164582041857/okay-heres-the-deal-almost-2-years-ago-i-posted)

**Author's Note:**

> prompt/fully fandom/fic things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/)!


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